Tyger on the Crooked Road

Forgive what you do not approve and love me for the energetic exertion of my talent. William Blake A Song of Innocence Book The First No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings. A life begins as a seed in the mind of God. Such seeds are neither empty nor complete, though holding extraordinary power within. On the evening of the 28th of November, in the year 1757, in an upstairs bedroom of a Soho hosier’s shop on London’s Broad Street, Number 28, William Blake was born. To say that he was a creative genius is to limit the fantatic scope of his art. To say that the world welcomed him, in all of his brilliant eccentricity, is unfortunately not so. Rather, the world sought to repress his spirit, and even extinguish its flame. Yet Will's art was not so easily dispensed with, nor was his ecstatic fire so easily subdued... I As the warm breeze finally slackened entirely, the kite fluttered toward the earth, its tattered tail trailing dutifully. Its guide and captain, a sturdy boy of twelve years, topped with an unruly mop of sandy-red coloured hair, noted the evening star in the now-dusky western sky. Pulling at the string even as he raveled it around a stick, Will ran barefoot over the deep green grass of October. In Peckham’s Rye parkland were great trees and modest shrubs, footpaths and a running brook, the bare ground left of many games, open sky spread with the reddish glow of sunset on scudding clouds, and a few solitary strollers and couples wending their Sunday way homeward. London and Westminster were yet well to the north, across the Thames, and Will, even should he leave at once, would have to run much of the way to be home by nightfall, as promised. Fetching the homemade kite up in both hands he kissed it for providing such pleasure on this day. Knowing only that he must, Will tugged at his corduroy trousers, rolled his grey woolen shirtsleeves back to full length, stuffed his bare feet back into his worn buckled shoes, gathered the canvas satchel full of paper and tools for writing and others for drawing, and set off at a brisk pace. Abruptly, after but twenty strides, he stopped, unable to bear leaving this sylvan scene just yet. Moving purposefully to a great beech tree, he sat himself at its base, then quickly slid to a prone position, his satchel serving as pillow. From there he could perform one of his favourite activities, gazing up at the skies through the grand branches of a full tree. Allowing his eyes to fall out of focus, he stared at the depthlessness above him and moved effortlessly into another mental dimension. Breathing deeply and evenly he let his eyes roam all the way to the horizon, and its sole occupant, the now glittering white evening star. Then to the star he formed a verse in his mind, “Let thy west wind sleep on the lake; speak to me with thy shining eyes, and wash me with your silver.” No, rather, “Speak to me with thy glimmering eyes,” he thought. And then, rather, “Speak silence with your glimmering eyes…” And so he retrieved a pencil from his bag, and a last scrap of parchment paper. Then, after chewing its end for a moment, Will wrote, “Speak silence with your glimmering eyes…and wash the dusk with silver.” Ahh, yes. “Let thy west wind sleep on the lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, and wash the dusk with silver.” Now there’s a fine fragment, he thought. Enough ere to build a poem about. Just then, as he lay stretched beneath the mighty tree, the colour of the sky intensified dramatically. Reddish went to redder, then gold infused it all. Something was stirring in the no-longer-still branches above him. He craned his neck backwards, then had to spin round to his knees, to get a proper look, tilting his head upwards as he could. Instantly he knew that another of his visions was upon him. Leaping to his feet, he fairly stumbled backwards, away from the first branches, thus enabling him to see the upper reaches of the beech. There, arrayed among the topmost branches, forty feet from the ground, were three magnificent, shining, figures in human form, though hardly human. Ten feet tall, light against light, eyes burning, hair streaming, voices unheard, yet surely perceived, the unclothed, hermaphroditic figures were not entirely new to Will. He knew them as Los, Enitharmon, and Satan, as they had visited before. Los, the spirit of vision, the guide of art and poetry, the divine inspiration. Enitharmon, the female emanation of Los, she was destiny, dreams, creation, love. Satan, the fallen angel, keeper of the flame of darker human energies, caught in an eternal struggle with God the Father. Satan was not to be worshipped, but neither to be feared. Satan was but complement to Los and Enitharmon. Satan was man bereft of poetic imagination, tied to the rational world, as Prometheus bound to his awful rock. “William Blake, poet, man of vision, revolutionary,” Los called down in a shivered voice like that of a tumbling waterfall. “Follow your heart. You will be tested. Follow your heart. You will be put upon, severely. You will be tempered.” Los’ huge muscled limbs heaved and billowed. The spirit’s eyes burned as giant fiery orbs. The boy felt their heat from the height. “You will be loved, William Blake. You will be much loved,” cried Enitharmon, unabashed in her flowing nakedness. “It is to love that you are born onto Albion’s fair plains, to love, to love, to love.” Her golden hair flamed all about her fabulous face, too radiant for the boy to bear. He hid his eyes. “Follow your dreams, always follow your deepest, darkest dreams.” Then a third voice rose upon the air. Harsher, rasping, rough and demanding was the voice of Satan saying, “You will be despised, William Blake. You will be negated. You will be imprisoned in the bowels of black dungeons of weeping stone. You, and your cause, will come to nothing. Unless…” and the voice fell to a gasping whisper then. Will turned his face upwards hesitantly, but he must hear. “Unless you persist. Listen to no one. Your own voice alone is the voice of destiny. You will be persecuted, as I am persecuted. You will come to nothing, unless…” but the words were cut short as the great hulking image of Satan exploded into bright orange flame, leaving nothing but wispy grey smoke in its wake. Los swept up Enitharmon then in his massive arms, and she fell against his body in joyous release. As they drifted off the branches and upwards from the treetop, their images faded too. Receding with their forms was the lilting, seductive voice of Enitharmon. “To love, to love, to love…” gradually faded into the silent sweep of evening’s glow. Will slumped to a sitting position at the base of the now-deserted tree. The words of these three great angelic figures reverberated through his pulsing mind. He felt exhausted, frightened and exhilarated all at once. He had known minor visions before, yet this was the most extraordinary, the most potently clear. He understood these spirits though. They spoke to him in a new language he suddenly loved as his own. But then, realizing that darkness was nearly upon him, he jumped to his feet, grabbed up his kite and satchel, and dashed for home. From out the park he ran on and on through the still-rural outskirts of London, over Westminster Bridge, all the way back toward Soho’s crowded, filthy, rough and tumble streets. After thirty hard and heaving minutes, Will turned onto Broad Street and came fast to the front of his father’s clothing shop in their two story home, burst through the heavy wooden door, and rushed running up the family stairs, two-then-one-then-two, from the work space below. Fairly leaping out of his shoes, he cried in breathless exhalation, “Mumma, Mumma, I must tell you what I’ve seen!”